


Brilliant and Commonplace

by Red



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, M/M, Sex, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been comfortably heterosexual for years. Well, unless you count that bit when he'd been erroneously figuring himself Lesbian Daughter #2. Enter Sherlock and... uh, mildly kinky gay sex?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant and Commonplace

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through TGG, pretty much! Written for the prompt "If someone could write me anything involving transgenderism/gender ambiguity/etc., I'd ♥ them forever" on the Sherlock BBC kinkmeme, original post (with another fill by me, oops) can be seen [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=108607#t108607). Apologies for Writing While American and for the Virgin!Holmes/GayForHolmes!Watson dynamic.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was, John thought, easily one of the more complicated affairs in his life.

Granted, he'd been warned for the most of it—well, as much warning as Stamford and a collection of police officers saw fit to give, at any rate. And were it merely a lack of regard for personal property, an apparent inability to eat more than two meals a week, and some supposed sociopathic tendencies, John wouldn't have thought it living with Sherlock so difficult. True, a life in Baker Street wasn't a quiet one, but by this stage John had come to terms with the fact that he just didn't do "quiet life." He rather appreciated the fact that any given night could be interrupted with a bit of casual breaking and entering in the name of forensic science.

The problem wasn't that he was concerned Sherlock would figure him out, either. Though he'd felt strangely protected by those early assumptions about Harry, and he'd been lulled a bit by the passing months, early on John had figured it was only a matter of time. From the first of Sherlock's fantastic off-hand deductions, John had felt uncomfortably exposed. Then again, there were few moments in the last thirty-odd years he hadn’t.

Yet the topic still hadn't come up with Sherlock. Daily, John expected a rapid-fire documentation of gestures borne from primary school socialization, of the various ways his body likely still betrayed him. He expected that line of interrogation from anyone above the age of two, much less Sherlock Holmes. By this stage--after the awkwardness of that initial "real life" test, after the first exhilarating year on hormones, after he'd finally shaved off that ridiculous moustache he'd sported in medical school just because he could, after he'd spent time alongside and treated men in hell who'd never once suspected... Well, waiting for someone who'd gone and made up the job title 'consulting detective' to figure him out was rather mundane. Whatever Donovan (and most people who had met Sherlock, for that matter) might say, by now John knew Sherlock was hardly the violent sort.

No, the complication about living with Sherlock--Sherlock, with his sharp and aggravating intellect, with his constant restless activity, with his long limbs and thick dark hair...

John had been pretty comfortably heterosexual for years--unless, he supposed, one counted the three he'd spent figuring he was Lesbian Daughter Number 2--and wrapping his brain around what was rapidly becoming an obsession with Holmes' ridiculously elegant hands and pale eyes was a bit disconcerting. It wasn't that he was having one of those crisis-of-threatened-masculinity issues. It was just that John didn't know the first thing to do with another man.

And while he was still wrapping his brain around it all, it would be nice if Sherlock seemed to have any clue what to do with anyone at all.

This wasn't John's usual way of going about this sort of thing, either. Usually he tried a date or two before he started making out with someone in an entryway; proper dates, not the romantic "spend three hours chasing around a dank warehouse getting shot at and barely saving Sherlock's life again and running home to avoid the police" evening they'd spent together prior to stumbling in the flat. He couldn't even say how it'd all started--one minute Sherlock was on about how clever he'd been, same as ever, and next thing John knew he was wedged tightly between a wall and a surprisingly amorous consulting detective. Still, even if Sherlock kissed like someone who'd learned how from a crash course of Internet tutorials and even if Sherlock hadn't a clue where to put his hands, John just went along with it.

It probably helped a little that, truth be told, anywhere Sherlock put those hands was honestly all right by him. The kissing matter, though--

"Ow, Christ, watch the teeth," he hissed, pushing Sherlock back. Bit late to prevent having a split lip at this stage, but at least he had the whole crime-fighting alibi should anyone ask.

For a moment, having Sherlock at arm's length, John was able to think clearly. He got about as far as 'Okay. Shit. What am I doing? This is your flatmate. The mad one. In case you hadn't realized,' before looking up at Sherlock--with that intense expression John had never seen outside a case, his lips looking about as bruised up as John's felt--and his brain promptly went right back out.

"Apologies," Sherlock said, smiling in a way that said he wasn't sorry in the least, "I had rather expected to depend on your not-inconsiderable expertise in these matters."

"You know, it would help if you let me do more than get shoved about," he said. Not that he had much experience kissing virginal madmen, or even people much taller than himself. At least not this much taller.

"Hmmm." Sherlock was closing in again and he'd apparently figured out John's hips were as good a place as any to put his hands, "Well, it was just a hypothesis."

'Oh, good, just a hypothesis, let's get back to getting off where Mrs. Hudson will run across us, sounds just brilliant,' John thought, but that part of his brain that tried to shove common sense in the path of a good time had decided to suddenly come back online. His hand--the one not on his flatmate's arse--was still on Sherlock's chest, and he pushed back again.

He meant to say, 'wait, we have to talk,' let the two of them calm down and be sensible so he could go in to the usual what-to-expect-when-you're-expecting-John-Watson's-pants-to-come-off speech.

What came out was, "Wait. You had a hypothesis about shoving me against a wall?"

"Yes. It's one I'm perfectly content with disproving, if you're concerned. Now, if you'd like to continue..."

"God, yes--I mean no, hold up. Exactly what was this hypothesis?"

Sherlock sighed. It was a sound John had never heard him make, never thought he'd hear. Sherlock Holmes, impatient to get off. Stranger things could happen.

"You don't want to know."

Probably not, and he could think of a number of things he'd like better to do with Sherlock's mouth, but curiosity won out. "No, I think I really do."

"Very well. Your room, desk, third drawer down--"

"...is locked."

"Somewhat, yes, but that's not important. Amongst various other paraphernalia, you own a strap-on harness, not a luxury model, but decently constructed. It's not been used for some time, I'd say perhaps prior to deployment. The straps, however, show wear from the last individual to use the device--inconsistent wear, yet remarkably little at the notch one would expect for your waist size, even correcting for the weight you lost whilst in Afghanistan. Not something received as a gift, and as you are still the happy owner, I believe it was your interest, not that of your last 'colleague.' Right so far?"

John stared. Apparently there was a point at which you could be so mortified, you couldn't even blush. Interesting.

If someone wanted to kidnap him and strap bombs to his chest, now would be a really great time.

'Why should it be sized to me,' he wanted to say, just to get that particular lecture on deduction out of the way, but when he'd recovered he had more pressing questions.

"Right. Yes. So you were picking the lock for..?"

"You'd hidden your laptop again."

"Because it's my laptop, Sherlock. If you absolutely had to steal it--which you didn't--couldn't you tell where I'd hidden it from marks in the carpet or scuffs on the furniture without completely disregarding my privacy?"

You had to give Sherlock credit, John thought--when he killed a mood, he did a nice thorough job and hid the body well. They were still having this discussion with only a foot of air between them, but mostly, John assured himself, because he couldn't back up any further into the wall.

"Boring. Naturally you keep it in the first drawer of your desk, any idiot could realize that much. I merely thought it prudent to conduct a proper investigation while I was there. Now, if we're done with this stimulating conversation..." Sherlock was pretty quickly cutting down on that foot between them, about as astute as he ever was with the petty feelings of humans.

"Hold up. You admit to rifling through my entire room--"

"Just the desk," Sherlock corrected, voice low against John's ear.

"Fine. Through my entire desk, and you just expect me to go along with it?"

Sherlock pulled back again, looking frustrated and a bit perplexed, like he did whenever John did something he found irrational. "I said you would not like to hear my hypothesis, and you insisted. Now you're upset with me. I only investigated in order to have more data--"

"About your flatmate's personal sex life?"

"I had hoped it would become considerably less private tonight. And I hate to proceed without facts. You know that, John."

Sighing, John found himself letting the annoyance go. What did he expect--of course Sherlock thought picking locks part of dating.

"Yeah, well," he said, pulling Sherlock closer, "so you know, not everyone who likes penetration wants to be shoved about."

"So I've seen. Interesting, considering the pornography I researched showing a 90% correlation between pegging and domination."

How many research hours does it really take to work up to having sex, John wondered, but Sherlock just continued with, "Now, if you'd like to find if the converse is also true..."

Maybe he hadn't performed dedicated weeks of pay-site research like Sherlock, but there was only one response to that.

"If that crate from the severed foot case is still on your bed, we're going upstairs."

\---

They either needed a flat with fewer stairs, or Sherlock would have to figure out a better place to store evidence, John thought, because the climb up to his room (interrupted as it was by Sherlock figuring out how to pin himself against the wall) seemed eternal. He'd been tempted to just steer them on the couch, uncomfortable as it might be, but the bags from Sherlock's most recent shopping trip--no doubt caustic, infectious, flammable, poisonous, or all of the above--thwarted that.

Finally up in the room, Sherlock had pulled John's jumper off and had given an abbreviated lecture on how unbuttoning shirts on dead bodies was surprisingly more difficult than live ones. Though the fact that this was Sherlock stripping him here was still settling in, John was backing him onto the bed, straddling him and pulling at that overpriced shirt.

Sherlock's lean chest was flushed, his breathing quick and shallow, and John had never seen him so beautifully intense outside of investigating a triple murder. John leaned over and kissed him again, deep and thorough, taking the lead to avoid a second split lip.

It'd been ages since he'd last got off, John had to admit. Even so, he was sure he'd never been so aroused. Sherlock was eager, hands still determined and plying, his mouth now strangely pliant against John's--depending on that "not-inconsiderable expertise," John thought. Groaning into the kiss as Sherlock shifted beneath him, John ground down and back. He could feel Sherlock's prick, warm and hard through two pair of trousers, pressing against his thigh.

'You're an idiot,' he thought, involuntarily pushing back again to rub his inner thigh harder against Sherlock, just to feel Sherlock tense under him once more. 'You're an idiot, and there's no way he doesn't know by now, but doing this when you're rubbing off on him and he's got your shirt half off?'

"Hold on," John panted, gripping Sherlock's wrists and reluctantly sitting up, "God, this is stupid, I'm sorry. Sherlock, there's something I--"

"Yes, yes, you were shot," Sherlock interrupted, pulling against John's hands lightly, like he was only interested in testing the grip, "Substantial scar, left shoulder, no doubt sniper. John, what does it fucking matter?"

"It wouldn't matter were it just that, Sherlock." Hell of a time for Sherlock to become obtuse. "I just... I need you to know what to expect. I should have said sooner, I know, but--"

"Tedious," Sherlock interrupted. He wasn't even looking at John properly, just pretending to struggle and smirking when John's hand tightened on his wrist. "Don't you get tired of this speech?"

He didn't know if he should be annoyed or happy for the interruption. Hopefully Sherlock didn't think it was about to be a speech on PTSD. "Yes, actually. Very. Sherlock, are you even--"

"Then don't lump me in with the rest of your insipid partners. Though I realize they were apparently incapable of it, I do know how to use the internet. There are plenty of photographs and videos available, so while I do not know exactly which surgeon performed your chest surgery, or exactly what your penis looks like--"

"Jesus Christ."

"--I think if you'd stop interrupting, I'd find out sometime this month."

Still gripping at Sherlock's wrists--maybe a bit too tight by now, but Sherlock hardly seemed to mind--he tugged once before letting go, encouraging Sherlock to get on with it and pull the undershirt off. "Sorry," he muttered, muffled by the fabric.

Going without the lecture was disorienting, and he hadn't had a partner who knew what top surgery was until after he'd undressed since college. He'd stop and appreciate it later, he thought; chalk it all up to one of the better parts of living with someone so uninterested in social norms. For now, he wasn't about to waste having Sherlock's full attention on him for a change.

Though it was difficult not to compare himself to Sherlock like this. Aside from the flush of arousal, Sherlock's long torso was pale, nearly flawless save for a thin scar, low along his ribs, that looked like it came from a glancing knife wound. Shocking Sherlock got away with so little, considering he'd been hit by two cars in as many months. John was short--too short by far, he'd always thought--and looked far worse for wear.

Afghanistan explained a lot of it: the still-inconsistent tan, the scars low on his hip from the IED blast, the thick network of scars from the sniper shot (and the surgery and infections that followed) on his shoulder. Rugby explained a bit more. But for all the damage he'd seen since, he was still most self-conscious about the two oldest scars, pale and nearly faded, running with surgical precision over his chest.

It was also difficult not to feel self-conscious with Sherlock Holmes under him like this, staring at John as if he were some corpse that'd been murdered in a highly novel manner. Sherlock ran his hands up from John's hips; mapped the collection of scars, curiously probing. Palms curved up over stomach and back, as if looking for more evidence. As John held still, letting Sherlock catalogue his body, he thought it was all strangely erotic.

The women he'd slept with hadn't been repulsed by him by any means. For that matter, cautious as John tended to be with dating, they hadn't even seemed particularly unsettled by his collection of scars. But there was this sort of socially polite way they'd all had of looking around them, of just pretending they weren't there. Having someone so single-minded and intent, splaying long fingers over a decade-old incision and measuring the trajectory of roadside shrapnel, was something new. It wasn't unlike being one of Sherlock's cases.

Sherlock was silent, for once no running commentary on his deductions, his reasoning. John hardly needed it. He knew the conclusions. And living with Sherlock this long, he was almost able to hear the thoughts anyway: a calculation on the sniper's distance, the words 'double incision, one revision (left side, new surgeon, two--no, one year and nine months--later)' obvious enough when under Sherlock's regard.

As long as he could remember, discovery was something best avoided. His body, his fears, his addiction to violence--seemed at any given time, at least one of these was something best hidden. Being studied like this, scar by scar, wasn't just novel because Sherlock was finally paying attention to someone who was still breathing.

This was being known.

He hadn't been dreading Sherlock's scrutiny, he realized. He'd been waiting for it.

Sherlock was still fixated on his shoulder, doing some belated post-surgery sponge count for all John knew, and John gripped that fine-boned hand again. Glancing suddenly up to finally meet John's eyes, Sherlock looked startled, flushed. Like even he was surprised by his ability to be so absorbed with another human being.

"It's all right," John said, mostly to himself--not as if Sherlock was ever likely to apologize for anything, not as if he had anything to apologize for, at least at the moment. He stroked down Sherlock's arm, the skin warm beneath his palm. It was a bit odd, feeling up someone without breasts, and he was hesitant for a moment. Would Sherlock even like it, did men even really go for this sort of thing? But Sherlock arched his back, licked his parted lips a little, and John decided that he'd really had enough hangups for the week.

"God, I want you," he breathed, honest at last with what he'd been thinking for months.

The way Sherlock went lax beneath him and smirked was really a bit obscene. "I don't believe I can go anywhere at the moment. I'd say I'm rather at your mercy."

No longer quite so concerned about what Sherlock would--or wouldn't--feel against him, John had settled on back his thighs, hands nearly at his waistband. And now John was trying desperately not to laugh.

"'At my mercy'? Really?"

"I don't see what you find so amusing," Sherlock said, hitching a little when John stroked lightly down his sides--ticklish, John thought, that'd come in handy someday--looking as haughty as he could half-naked and flushed. Sherlock was even more attractive when indignant.

"Think that line really works?" John teased, still openly admiring as he reached down to unbutton Sherlock's trousers.

"I'll have you know, ah--" Sherlock halted, amazingly responsive as John brushed over his cock through his clothes, "That-- that every time I have seen that 'line,' as you call it, utilized, the results were successful."

"Sherlock, contrary to what you might think, internet pornography isn't real life." He couldn't help grinning. Sherlock was aroused, annoyed, and John had just found out he apparently did not wear pants. Even if all they did was dry hump like a couple of teenagers, somehow this would still be some of the best sex he'd ever had, John thought.

"I had hoped there would be some correlation. However, I am glad."

"Yeah?" John asked, absently. He was a little distracted by unzipping Sherlock's trousers, by the heat of Sherlock's skin and the coarseness of his hair against John's fingers.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and that was all the warning John had before Sherlock sat up quickly, all that languidness gone as he went for John's trousers. "I'm afraid the casting is always so inadequate."

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock made quick work of button and zipper, worked his hand in. He was hard, ridiculously turned on, and even the rough drag of fabric against his cock felt incredible. The cotton had to be damp against Sherlock's fingers, he was so wet. Thinking about it made him jerk against Sherlock's hand once, sharply, as he pulled down Sherlock's trousers. Having Sherlock try to pull his clothes off with a hand shoved between his legs made it difficult to get them far, and eventually--after nearly falling over--he got Sherlock to let him pull away so they could each take care of their own clothes and get on with being nude with a minimum of injury.

When he looked up after making quick work of the remainder of his clothes, though, Sherlock was still sitting back, trousers bunched around his thighs. He was rubbing his fingers together, smelling them. The familiarity of the gesture was jarring--rainwater, alcohol, petrol, John'd seen him do it hundreds of times. Probably he'd stared a little, most of those. This time when Sherlock looked up and caught John watching he grinned, rubbed them together once more for show, and started licking his fingertips

"Strip," John said, when he could. "Now."

It came out gruffly, like an order. He'd never seen Sherlock follow orders before; certainly hadn't ever seen him do so with that expression, eyes lowered and lips parted. Maybe Sherlock was just acting--with someone so capable of turning tears on and off at whim, hard to tell--but were he not...

"Lie back," he ordered, just to see if it was a fluke, "jerk yourself, not hard."

Sherlock pumped himself, long strokes, just enough pressure to draw foreskin over and back. John swallowed. Right. Not a fluke, then, he thought, and though it was near impossible to look away from Sherlock Holmes jerking off under orders, he met Sherlock's eyes again. Sherlock was watching him, no less intense for how dilated his pupils had become.

"Sherlock, what do you want?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. It was nice to know that even Sherlock could be at a loss sometimes. "Anything. Anything you want, John, just tell me."

He'd only had passing experience with this--Mira, who he'd dated for a rather adventurous three months during medical school. It wasn't anything he'd say, but all he could think was I want to tie you down, fuck you, and leave you there so I can clean all the cadaver out of the fridge.

Instead he asked, "Aren't you afraid that's a bit carte blanche?"

"I've rope in my room. Uncoiled, natural fibre. Leave it--tomorrow we can, if you like, for now, John..." Sherlock trailed off, hand moving quicker, more turned on by the idea or by being watched, John wasn't sure.

"Yeah. Enough of that, now, hands above your head." He might not have experience with other men, but it was pretty obvious Sherlock was getting close. If Sherlock wanted him to decide what to do with him, he could think of a few things he'd like to do before Sherlock came. Appealing as it might be, watching him come on command... After the rope thing, John thought, definitely.

As Sherlock crossed his wrists deferentially above his head, John sat closer, cupped his hand around Sherlock's prick experimentally. Certainly he'd done this with a strap-on, but this was considerably more attached to someone. He gave a cautious stroke, probably overly so; all the same, Sherlock made a soft noise and thrust in his grip. With his other hand he brushed carefully over Sherlock's testicles, pressed on the skin just behind, watched Sherlock's reactions. He wasn't sure of what Sherlock liked, and if Sherlock was anything like him, he knew he was being infuriatingly delicate. Unfamiliar as it was, Sherlock seemed so vulnerable in his hands.

He thumbed over the head, spread the precum around. Idly, he considered imitating Sherlock's smelling routine, but he couldn't help working Sherlock like this--hard, leaking, oversensitive. Sherlock looked almost concerned, no doubt wondering why something he objectively had more practice at was so pleasurable when John did it.

More confident, he tightened his grip on an upstroke, brought his thumb more roughly over glans. Sherlock moaned. "John," he'd gripped his own arms tightly by now, "John, I would like to-- may I--"

To save Sherlock some dignity, he interrupted, loosened his hand and eased off a little. "Yeah. Would it make it better if it were an order?"

"Immensely," Sherlock replied, smiling quick and shaky, and brought only his right arm down as John kneeled up.

Apparently Sherlock having such ridiculously long limbs was good for more than inadvertently causing flatmates to develop fixations. Spreading his knees more, warily balancing his weight to keep off his bad leg (maybe he didn't need a cane, but the IED had been real enough), John could feel how slick he'd become. Sherlock's fingertips drew easy against the underside of his cock.

The first few strokes were hesitant, but Sherlock was also a quick study. Watching John as carefully as any experiment, Sherlock at first just concentrated on his prick, figuring out to push up against the underside while rubbing thumb over glans--the way that made John groan, deep and appreciative--far more quickly than any of John's past lovers. Sherlock soon reached his left hand down, bracing John's hip as they jerked each other.

"I... Ah, John, please. Trying to... Speak here. I realize you enjoy penetration in some orifice--"

John kept up the short, rough strokes as he laughed breathlessly. "Never letting you sext me."

"I wouldn't dream of... Let me work here. I don't have any data, is there anything I shouldn't..." he trailed off, sliding fingers back lightly in suggestion.

"No, it's good," John said quickly, "For me, really, it's all good."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, and slid two fingers easy up in, curving them sharply when John groaned.

"Fuck," John hissed, the wet sound of Sherlock fingering him incredibly arousing.

"That... Perhaps could just be managed. The condoms you have are all well within the printed--"

"You looked at the... What am I saying, course you did. Think you'd manage it, though?" They could try it the other way round, but--while sleeping with virgins was not his usual style--he figured it'd be better to try working Sherlock up to that.

If Sherlock didn't insist on being fucked while bound to the kitchen table tomorrow night, that was.

"Of course I could manage," Sherlock said, imperious, "However, it may be somewhat brief."

"For me as well. Been a while," John replied. "Still want a go?"

"If you'd recall, at your mercy here. I'm not in charge of this situation."

"Keep acting it, I'll keep forgetting. Here, let off," he pulled back, unsteady as Sherlock drew his fingers back out. Not taking any pains to conceal where the keys to the desk were--Sherlock obviously knew where they were already, could still get in even without--he was back quickly with a condom. Just in time to watch Sherlock regarding his fingers with a completely clinical expression before proceeding to lick them clean again.

"Probably lick your own off," he muttered, opening the condom. Chances were, he'd get it on faster than Sherlock would.

"On occasion," Sherlock admitted, sounding pleased with himself, like he knew exactly what saying that would do to John. "Here, that's... Shouldn't I have practice?"

"Hold still. You can practice when you're next bored. I think you know where the strap-ons are. Now," the condom in place, he straddled Sherlock's hips again, "tell me how long you think you've got."

"Depending on-- John."

Smirking, John kept his hand pressed hard on Sherlock's prick, rubbing himself off against it, cock to cock. "Yeah, listening," he said, voice low, "C'mon, tell me. It's an order, if you like."

"Orders are somehow less convincing if... if, ah, they are issued..."

Holding Sherlock steady, he ground down again, twice; Sherlock's hands went for his hips.

"Hands to yourself. Tell me."

Sheets clenched tight in his hands, Sherlock tried again, "At the current rate, I-- oh, God."

It really had been a while--Sherlock wasn't as large as at least one of his dildos, but John didn't often use that one on his own--so taking Sherlock with minimal prep and only his own lube and what was on the condom probably wasn't ideal. He stretched himself slowly, closing his eyes to enjoy the slight burn, the pressure of getting filled. It'd taken him a few relationships to admit how much he loved this--as ever, Sherlock was right, he'd bought nearly everything in that drawer--and he'd spent more than a few nights trying to explain that being a man didn't mean he always had to wear the harness in the relationship.

When he'd taken Sherlock in completely, cock pushed against him, John stilled, panting. It felt incredible, and he didn't want to come too soon, and he was planning on keeping his eyes closed to envision the inside of the crisper drawer to calm down when he heard Sherlock moan, soft and desperate.

Sherlock's hands were nearly white-knuckled against the sheets, he was sweating and staring up at John with an almost pleading expression. Seeing him like that, John shuddered with arousal. "John, please," Sherlock was begging, and John smiled.

"No predictions?" he prompted. Not often Sherlock was the distracted one.

"John, for the... I can't think like this, I need-- will you just--"

Bracing himself over Sherlock, he said, "Yeah, I know. Hands stay where they are, but if you're still following that 'hold still' order, it's lifted, all right?" before pressing down to kiss him. John would just as soon have Sherlock's hands on him, to tell the truth, but Sherlock probably needed to feel in control of his own body somehow.

Sherlock surged against him. He'd have that second split lip after all, most likely, but it was worth it. He could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, could feel the tension in Sherlock's body, and with every thrust his cock was pressed hard between their bodies. They were absurdly uncoordinated--Sherlock managed to slip out twice, John managed to elbow Sherlock when he tried to shift position--but it mattered little. They were both also absurdly close.

It was almost embarrassing, how soon he orgasmed, groaning out Sherlock's name. He was glad he didn't ask for a predictor on his lasting power--"five, ten minutes at maximum," was something he hadn't experienced since he went through puberty at twenty-four. It was only a small consolation that Sherlock was close behind, roughly thrusting up and coming with a shout that John was half-certain Mrs. Hudson would be hounding him about during her shows tomorrow morning.

Panting, he slumped over Sherlock for a moment. He mouthed lightly over Sherlock's shoulder, thought about kissing Sherlock's neck, where he could see the rapid hammering pulse. Best not to chance these things, though--he was well-used to a bit of cuddling after sex, but they might've already hit Sherlock's physical contact limit for the month.

Besides, Sherlock was never any use with clean-up. Wincing as he sat up--somehow he'd managed to strain his leg and his bad shoulder, smart--he reached back to hold the condom as he pulled off. He glanced up to see if Sherlock was paying any attention, caught him watching lazily.

"Could help, you know."

Sherlock just lay there.

"You've permission to move your arms," he tried. It was like with the rest of the flat--clean up once, Sherlock would just think he was entitled.

"But I've yet to practice," Sherlock said, gesturing idly at the condom. John sighed. His sheets, he supposed he may as well take care of it this once, but Sherlock was going to have a date with a box of condoms and a dildo very soon.

After he'd tossed it, he rested against Sherlock's side, just touching. He could feel Sherlock's pulse still racing, breath evening out. Falling asleep, John thought.

"Suppose that could have been a little less exotic," he mused absently, "Your first time and all."

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes, stretching a little before settling more in the pillows.

More against John, as well, he noticed.

"This was hardly 'exotic.' No bondage, no crops or whips, no surface piercing," he listed, John barely able to keep up for wondering if this was Sherlock's off-work Christmas wishlist, "just mutual masturbation, penetration, and a touch of your hard-earned military training."

"You've already penciled bondage in tomorrow," John pointed out. Not that he minded.

"Naturally," Sherlock said, "we find it mutually agreeable. There's no reason to go through some unnecessary process of gradual fetish introduction, simply because I hadn't found a tolerable person with whom to have sex prior to our introduction. Besides, it isn't as if we'd ever have the sort of unbearably ordinary intercourse that Mrs. Turner's pair engages in with monthly precision."

The stream of thought was almost reflex--ordinary intercourse, like he'd have with nearly any other man, what if that's what Sherlock wants, not as if he's had chance to find out--and came over him unbidden.

And as soon as he'd thought it, Sherlock sighed. "God's sake, John. If you insist on thinking in such an imbecilic manner so loudly, I'll be forced to sleep with the severed feet. They at least wouldn't keep me awake."

"Sorry?" John tried. He'd never had anyone break in that cycle so effectively. "So, how'd you find out, anyway?"

He asked hesitantly--he'd rather Sherlock not sleep with the feet--but he had to know. There were a million possibilities, he figured, from the way he still habitually layered shirts to Mycroft thumbing through decades of therapists' notes and sending his brother a text.

"Hmm. That day you refused to give me my mobile until I sorted those papers," Sherlock started, sounding nearly asleep. "You'd thrown the packaging from your prescription in with the rest of the recycling. It was on top. From there, it was hardly difficult to draw an accurate conclusion."

"Oh," John replied, intelligently. He remembered that day--he hadn't thought Sherlock would ever look at the inside of a recycling bin unless it was for a case, truth be told. He didn't say anything further, but unfortunately an unspoken that's all? hung between them.

Much as Sherlock liked to pretend otherwise, he wasn't immune to praise. Early in the friendship (and that was, John assumed, still as strong a word as he could put on whatever this was between them) John had realized that, from Sherlock's surprised "you think so?" en route to that first crime scene onward. Just from the way Sherlock shifted against him, John could tell he was disappointed in himself, like drawing a conclusion in such a commonplace manner made Sherlock commonplace himself.

He'd always be a bit impossible like that, John knew. There'd probably never be any convincing him that it wasn't just how Sherlock gathered his data--hacking email accounts, climbing through windows, watching Xtube--it was what he did with it, the connections he made.

"I mean, it's brilliant," John said quickly. It didn't much matter that Sherlock looked doubtful, he'd come around to the truth as always. "Course it's still brilliant."


End file.
